


Again and again and again and again

by gotfanfiction



Series: Twitter nonsense [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Child Death, F/M, I'm Sorry, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: Geralt's known Jaskier his whole life. A boy with bright eyes in his village who died of sickness very young. A girl who sang with every step who was swept away by a river. A man who was his friend until he wasn't anymore.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Twitter nonsense [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024782
Comments: 28
Kudos: 329





	Again and again and again and again

**Author's Note:**

> Barely edited. First posted on my twitter. Get ready to ride the angst train with me.

The boy, about Geralt's own age, had skipped up to him one day, gifted him a crumpled up handful of flowers and kissed his cheek before skipping away again. 

He wanted to see him again, the blue of the other boy's eyes burning brightly in his heart, but a sickness killed him, and many other children besides, and when he asked his mother she told him simply that these things happen.

**--**

Geralt was newly on the Path, already tired of the way people would sneer and spit at him, when he first heard the singing. A woman, no, a girl, was spinning and twirling along the road he was riding the first Roach down, seemingly uncaring of the rain or the mud.

She smiled at him, berries stuck in her teeth, dyeing her lips red, juice dripped down her chin. It was charmingly disgusting. She was singing as she was eating her treats, the flowers twined in her hair half wilted and gone, and the curl of her hair was a punch in the gut, almost. 

Geralt knew her eyes, the curl of the tips of her smile, sky bright eyes reflecting some deep joy. He thought of a boy, and bent up flowers, and sickness. His first taste of grief offered him some berries, a gift given simply to give.

He took them, ate them because she wanted him to, and smiled just to watch her eyes widen, color rising in her cheeks. She sang him a love song, a bawdy, silly thing, obviously trying to get him blushing as well.

It didn't work. Geralt was a witcher, and witchers don't blush. When he told her as much she laughed, and informed him that she would just have to try harder next time. 

They parted ways easily, the promise of next time lodged warmly in Geralt's chest. But the rain grew worse, and within a few hours a mild summer storm had blown into an absolute deluge. Geralt urged Roach the first onto higher ground, and got to waiting it out. 

It was hours until the snapping lightning and shocks of thunder let up; he set about leading his horse down without breaking either of their ankles. He made it back to the road muddy but unscathed, resolved to go a nearby river to rinse the sludge from his boots at least. 

Geralt wasn't expecting to see a tangle of brown hair on the bank of the swollen river, flowers missing. He kneeled next to the body, turned it over gently, and tried not to sob. The girl's face was pale, lips now blue, like her eyes. Her neck was at an odd angle, but it most likely happened after she'd _drowned_ , swept away by the sudden flood waters.

He knew that there was nothing he could have done, that was no way he could have saved her but still, he felt guilt. He had known this person, who was a body now, had seen the sun glint off crooked teeth, heard the sweet voice lilting in song.

The flowers that had been torn from her braid were the same as the ones the little boy had given him. There were a few petals left, and he took them and put them in his pouch, and thought of their deep color as he picked her up, thought of her songs as he wrapped her in his spare blanket, thought of her sky bright eyes as he tied her corpse to Roach.

Geralt set off to the nearest town, grief weighing him down. He could only hope that this place was her home; that her family didn't assume her death was his doing and drive him out.

**--**

He didn't meet his grief bringer very often, but meet them he did, again and again, brief flashes of a life he would spend the rest of his mourning. Geralt often met them young, children who smiled at him with eyes he saw in dreams that held no fear, only joy.

They would ask him for stories, would put fat yellow flowers in his hair, singing songs until a parent arrived to save them from the monster they clambered on. He knew they would all die, because they always did, after they met him.

Geralt stayed away from people for a while, after the eighth time he got a glimpse of larkspur eyes, laughter carried on the wind, a child dead in his arms.

He took contract after contract, spent years avoiding inns, spoke only to those paying him and his horse. And he was not happy, but he was content enough, and witchers were not meant for happiness, anyways. He was a monstrous thing, sharp of tooth and manner, meant only to be a slayer of things more monstrous than he.

But not even a witcher can subsist on only what they can forage in the woods. He needed supplies, new armor; his shirt was so threadbare and worn that it was sheer, and the only reason he hadn't cut it into bandages yet was because it was the only one he had left. So. It was time to tempt fate.

The nearest place with people who could provide him these things he needed was unfortunately much larger than he would like. A small city, bustling with new growth, the stink of too many people in too close of quarters like pervasive perfume.

Geralt did his best to tune the noise and scents out as he went about his business. People would briefly stare at him, but for the most part they were concerned with their own business, and so left him to his. He appreciated it, in a way, these busy people just not caring about who or what he was. Unfortunately, rare potion ingredients and armor were both timely and costly to acquire. So he was forced to stay, at least for a while. 

It was inevitable, then, that he would run into his person, whoever they were this time. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least this time they'd had some time to grow into a person. Perhaps they were still a babe, and a meeting would never happen. No sane mother would bring their infant to see a witcher. It didn't really work.

And of course, he could already hear the sweet singing, smell the flower-berry-sharp scent of them, picture the cold sky bright eyes. There was a bard, in the tavern below the room he was renting for his stay. That voice, an adult's for once, not a child or a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

He knew better. He still went down the stairs. 

**--**

Two weeks. He'd gotten two weeks. His person was a woman now, plush and soft, but for sharp-sweet scent and sharper eyes. She watched him as he sat, directed her songs and herself to him. 

The last tune of the night was sung from his lap, her finger plucking away, voice loud in his ear. His fingers flexed on her hips, hands left where she'd put them. 

Geralt stayed with her, in her rooms. She often laughed at him, loudly the way she always was bright and sweet and sharp, like stolen berries. 

She pulled him in, overwhelmed him, told him she loved him best of all, truly and deeply. 

It wasn't enough.

Geralt needed to leave, at some point, to gather his things. He pressed a kiss to her brow and promised to return. When he came back it was to chaos. He had been gone less than a day, had tried to hurry, but.

There had been some sort of brawl, he was told, that had escalated into something worse. Deadlier. His dear, his sharp sweet lady, caught in the middle, struck down without care.

She had no family. She claimed Geralt was the only family she could ever want. He took her and burned her, burned her with her favorite things, swallowed back the urge to join her on her pyre. 

He had known better, after all.

**--**

He didn't bother with staying away anymore.

What was the point? It was clearly going to keep happening, and whoever his person was, woman or man or sometimes neither, was clearly cursed to meet him and then to die. 

He resolved to keep to the path. No more letting himself get trapped in this strange orbit. But clearly resisting wouldn't do him any good. So he simply kept to his duties, acknowledged the person when they met, and did his best to put it from his mind.

Years passed. And then more. Before he even realized it, it had been decades, and nary a hint of them had crossed his path. Maybe whatever strange magic keeping them bound together had run its course, and they were free. 

It grieved him, but he felt a bit lighter for it. He did love them, every time, as much as he was able. Hope that their suffering was done with was almost a balm. His strange person, sweetly sharp, bright and lovely and only ever meant to die. He wished peace for them.

Oh, but then there was Renfri, who was all sharpness over grief and pain. He met her, loved her and killed her, and he was the butcher now.

And The Butcher of Blaviken he remained, people somehow even less friendly than before, spit and fire and sword their hellos and goodbyes. He thought he would die as The Butcher, but then.

Then he met Jaskier.

**--**

Jaskier who was Geralt's person, but more his own than not. Jaskier who followed him. Who left but came back. Who sang and picked flowers, whose favorite things were his lute, his silk clothes. His favorite treat was berries, fat from the sun. He fell in love like other people breathed, but always returned to Geralt. 

Geralt felt overwhelmed again, but this time refused to let it drown him. He would keep his sense, and keep Jaskier at arm's length. He knew he was failing, and falling, but he kept it up. 

Perhaps if he didn't let him see how deeply he was affected the magic would let his dear friend be, would let him live a long mortal life, let him die as a happy, fulfilled man. 

Geralt felt that Jaskier was owed that, at the very least. 

And then the djinn. And Yennefer. And that damned wish. _Tie me to her, and not to him_ , he thought. _Let him be free_. He suppose it worked, after a fashion. Geralt knew that what he felt for Yen was real. He did love her, loved when she let down a wall and smiled at him truly, loved the fall of her hair, the glint of her eyes.

He knew she felt nearly the same. They met over and over again, but death didn't dog at their heels, and Geralt finally let himself believe that perhaps this once, destiny would favor him.

Borch happened. The dragon egg happened. Yen finally discovered the roots of them. She was furious, heart sore and betrayed. She left. For good this time. There would be no more meetings, no more of them, because though they cared for each other she was right. Whatever real feelings they had had sprung up from something that was not.

Jaskier, his friend, the greatest source of grief and feeling Geralt had ever known, had tried to reach out but Geralt had not wanted that. He was tired, angry, done with destiny and all of that bullshit. He snapped out words meant to hurt. Lies, but that didn't matter.

So he was alone. Witchers were meant to be alone. Feeling only ended in grief for people like him. It was better this way. 

**--**

Geralt stared across the fire at his Child Surpise. The girl, Ciri, was huddled up, glancing around like she was expecting to be ambushed at any moment. He couldn't really blame her. She had told him what had happened to her, after Cintra fell, how she had come to meet him, in the woods, scared and alone and grief stricken.

He had no idea how to comfort her. Jaskier would know, but Geralt had driven him away. Didn't stop him from missing him. He swore, sometimes, that he could almost pick up the bard's scent on the breeze. Like right now, even.

He shifted, because now he could hear something, too. Ciri blinked at him, alarmed, as he stood suddenly. He shook his head at her, trying to let her know to keep quiet without alerting whoever was approaching of their presence. 

He wished he hadn't lit the fire, but Ciri was small and cold and _his_ , and thinking of denying her something so simple had pained him. He could hear two people now, arguing quietly with each other, making enough noise to wake the dead. 

_He knew those voices._

Jaskier and Yennefer staggered into the small clearing, both looking the worse for wear. It was obvious that they were only upright because they were each holding the other up. 

They were barely walking, on the edge of tipping over. Jaskier was bruised, Yen looked exhausted beyond words, and they were both bleeding freely.

It wasn't a very happy reunion. Ciri was glad enough to meet Yennefer, who eyed her with tired fascination, but Jaskier was an unknown. She settled a bit when Geralt and then, to his surprise, Yen as well, vouched for him, but Jaskier made himself scarce anyways. 

Geralt followed him to the small creek his friend had more or less collapsed by, and helped him clean the blood off his face.

There was nothing for bandages, but thankfully no bones had been broken. Fury and shame warred in Geralt's chest when he learned that Nilfgaard had captured Jaskier weeks ago, and then Yen only just recently. They had been beaten for information about _him_ but Yen and Jaskier were both made from sterner stuff than most people, and had managed to escape a few days after Yen had fallen into their hands.

Geralt pulled Jaskier in, mindful of bruised ribs and torn flesh, and wept. He told him a story, about a boy who died of some terrible sickness. A girl swept away by an equally terrible flood. Children, one after the other, living only long enough to meet a lonely man. A woman with a harp, cut down without care. A man who made a witcher his muse.

Jaskier was silent, his hands clenched tight in Geralt's shirt. He whispered his own tale, when Geralt was finished, of a boy with a head full of curls and lovely dark eyes, a young man, bleached pale by terrible alchemy who ate stolen berries and laughed with a silly girl.

He told Geralt of a dream, one he's had all his life, of being happy with a man who had eyes the color of his favorite flower. Who would sing with him, hold him close, kiss him and love him.

Geralt breathed in berries and crushed flowers, sharp and sweet, looked at sky bright eyes, leaned down, kissed this person who he had known for the whole of his wretched life, loved just as long.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've ever published. Oof.
> 
> Come check out my other Twitter fics, on my Twitter <3


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